


Like the Old Days

by frogy



Category: Big Time Rush
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 07:18:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogy/pseuds/frogy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wish the world was flat like the old days / Then i could travel just by folding a map / No more airplanes, or speed trains, or freeways / There'd be no distance that could hold us back.</p><p>OR</p><p>Camille in a corset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like the Old Days

**Author's Note:**

> For Porn Battle XII, prompt "costume." Title and pretentious first half of the summary are from "The New Year" by Death Cab for Cutie. Un-beta'd. Let me know if you find a mistake so I can fix it. Also, I make no claims as to the historical accuracy of Camille's outfit.

Camille looks at her reflection in the full length mirror of her trailer. She doesn't look like herself. Something she never got when she was being all "method" when she started was how much a real costuming department matters. If it weren't for the scene behind her-- microfiber couch, coffee table with her laptop and iphone, empty venti Starbucks iced coffee cups strewn around every possible surface-- she could believe that she's the prairie girl she's half dressed as. Her wavy brown hair is plaited in two long braids, pinned up around her head. She has short bangs which cut too high up across her forehead in a way that's impossible to do anything fashionable with, so she's gotten used to talking all about how it's for a role.

She's done filming for the morning. Her lunch break is that just long enough that Victoria from the costume department came by to help her out of the silk damask gown, hoop-skirt and petticoats. They're too delicate to leave on when the threat of wrinkles and lunch spills loom. But it's not long enough of a break to make it worth undoing the lacing of her corset. By the time they'd have it off, they'd just have to start lacing it up again.

So, she's stuck in her trailer, trying to decide whether she can go down to catering in a corset and pantaloons. It's more clothing than she's wear to the beach. Heck, it's more clothing than she'd wear to an MTV red carpet event, pantaloons coming all the way down to her knees.

But the thin white muslin is sheer and gauzy, the outline of her legs is barely just visible, tantalizing all the way up. And, she can't help but have a little bit of Catherine, the prairie girl, in her. Acting is living and breathing another person after all, and Catherine would be scandalized at just the thought.

She watches herself in the mirror when she takes a deep breath, sighing at the decision that she can't go anywhere, and understands why women in romance novels always have heaving bosoms. The boning of the corset keeps her ribs right where they are, so there's nowhere else for the breath to go. It's optical illusion is incredible, her waist looks so small and her breasts seem to be spilling out.

Thoughts like that make her miss James. He's always been their biggest fan. But three days before she got back from filming on location he left on a club tour to promote his first solo album. She can't even be mad at him for it. The album is incredible, she's heard it, and he's going to come back to her a bigger star than ever. It's just frustrating. They wasted all that time when they were both living at the Palm Woods dating other people ,sharing nothing more than some ill advised kisses when it would have been so easy to sneak off for more. Now that they're actually together their stuck with phone calls and texting.

Which actually gives her an idea. The deviant smile on her face looks out of place in this outfit. She turns away from the mirror and walks over to retrieve her phone, needing to bend at the waist to get it. Movement in this getup is limited.

Phone in hand, she turns back to the mirror and snaps a few shots of herself, a full body, one closer up, cutting off her head and feet to show off clothes, to tease at what's beyond them, and one final one that's all boobs straining in the corset. She types out a quick "wish you were here," before sending them off.

"God are you trying to kill me," comes back almost immediately.

":) what are you wearing?" she sends. She hopes he's wearing the brown leather jacket. That's her favorite.

"isnt that supposed to be my line," he sends, totally ignoring the question.

"come on, i want to know," Camille types. She sits down on the couch in the closest approximation to kicking back as she can get while maintaining forced perfect posture.

"can this wait," James responds immediately. Before Camille can reply she gets another message, "sorry i promise well get back to this," then a third, "god you look so hot."

Camille pouts at her phone, but if he's not there to respond, there's nothing she can do about it. She sends a quick "okay ;)" and tries to figure out what to do next. Camille picks up the TV remote and starts flipping through the channels.

She's temporarily settled on "Say Yes to the Dress" while still scrolling through the other channel's info when there's a knock on her door. Camille quickly turns off the TV, not wanting to be caught watching embarrassing TV, dropping the remote when she gets up to open the door.

She barely has time to process that it's James at her door before he's kissing her, There's no slow lead up, his lips baring down hard on hers, mouth open tongue demanding entrance. She steps back on autopilot, and he follows her, kicking the door closed behind him. He has his hands cupping her head, fingers digging to her hair, and fuck the hair people are going to kill her if she comes back a fucked-out mess.

The trailer's not big and it's just a few steps until her back is slamming up against the full length mirror on the wall. He breaks the kiss as violently as it roughly as it started, _burying_ his face in her cleavage. "God," she pants, "you can't mess up my hair, they'll kill me," and she brings her hands up grab at his, physically removing them from her head, leaving them to grab at her shoulders instead.

He squeezes, licking a line across her right breast. "You have no idea how you look," James says, following the same path with a scrape of his teeth. She wants him so much and he wants her and she wants him because of how much he wants her. It's recursive and addictive.

Every breath is a tease now, the press of her nipples against the inside of the corset when that's where she really wants James's mouth. He sucking now and, "shit," she groans, tangling her hands in her hair and pulling him away. "No marks either."

"Can you take this off," he asks, running his hands down the boning, a tingling pressure the whole way down.

"No," she groans. "It takes a whole team of people to lace me up."

He's steps back now to survey the corset and her, just his hands on her teeny-tiny waist. Camille lets him look, leaning akimbo against the mirror, head tilted back breathing fast and shallow as she tries to catch her breath.

"What about this?" he says dropping to his knees, not hesitating here either, going straight for the juncture of her legs, open mouthed licking at her through the gauzy white cotton. She's already so ready and the wet fabric is rubbing coarse and rough and just this side of too much. Her hands tangle in his hair, pulling as his tongue hits just the right spot.

This is just as much a wonderfully bad idea as everything else he's tried. She doesn't want him to stop, but she pulls him away anyway. "Those come off," she says chokes out.

"Okay, yea," he says, leaning back. His mouth so, so wonderfully red that Camille is distracted from by it from his words. But when she processes it, she drops her hands from her head. James stands up and she wiggles out of the drawers, still leaning back against the mirror, kicking them away when they fall to her feet.

James just stands there looking. Camille doesn't care what type of disheveled picture she paints. She can see how hard he is in his skinny jeans. "What are you waiting for?" she says. "Come on and fuck me."

It's like a switch is flipped. James goes for his back pocket, fumbling for his wallet, pulling out a condom and dropping the wallet behind him. He opens his jeans, pushing them down. The jeans are so skinny that they stay there bunched up with his underwear mid-thigh. But it's enough. He gets the condom on takes a stilted step forward so he can push in. His mouth finds hers again and she finally has James exactly where she wants him. Camille wraps her right leg around James, pulling him in as close as she can.

James grabs under her thigh, hitching her leg up further, thrusting. Camille is pushed up to her toes withe the desperate motion of his hips and her hands fumble at the mirror behind her as she tries to find purchase, her sweaty hands leaving clammy handprints against it's cold, slick surface. James slides his hand down her thigh to settle under her ass, holding her up, and Camille wraps her arms around his neck to hold on.

James's other hand has made it's way to her ass now too, and when he shifts forward, she wraps her other leg around her. Every time she thinks they're as close as they can get, he pushes in harder. She's pressed firmly between the mirror and James, another layer of the vice around her, barely able to flex her legs in counterpoint to the pounding of his hips.

She's higher than he is in this position, his mouth perfect height to mouth at her cleavage and it's good that they can't kiss because she can't catch her breath as it is, leaving her with short, panting, breaths and reedy groans, constricted by the corset. "Come on, more," she gets out, digging her heels into his ass.

"I-" James groans, thrusting in. "I'm- I don't want to drop you," and she can feel his arms trembling underneath her.

"Fuck-" she groans, thinking. It's harder like this. "I have a couch."

"Brilliant," James says, staggering backward not letting go of her. Camille wraps her arms tight around James's shoulders, holding on as as he stumbles around the coffee table to the couch. He holds on to her until his knees hit the couch, and Camille bounces, falling down onto it when he lets go. She settles sprawled on her back, one leg bent, pressed into the back of the couch, the other spread off the side of the couch, foot bracing her on the floor.

James trips over his pants still around his thighs, fumbles, falling on to Camille, knocking the breath out of her with an oof.

"Sorry," James says, scrambling to push himself up,

Camille grabs him. "No, come on," she groans.

"Okay, okay." James thrusts back into her. "Yeah, fuck."

He has more room to move here, thrusting in harder, deeper, faster. James hoists Camille's leg up off the floor, hand under her thigh and pounds in. Her whole body is moving with the power of each thrust and she braces her hands on the arm rest behind her to keep from slamming back into it.

Camille has never been this breathless and hazy from sex but she's fuzzy and gasping for breath. Everything is coming through soft focus and blurry beyond the heat and want and James. Camille wants to crane up and kiss him, lifts her head, lips straining for James. But her torso doesn't move that way, and she thumps back dizzy from the effort.

"More," she chokes out. She is so close. James lets go of her leg. Camille is about to protest, but her open mouth turns into a groan when his fingers find her clit. It's all over after that, orgasm sparking along her in waves, bright, brighter than usual compared to the way everything else is graying and fading at the periphery.

James keeps moving, right through, and it's too much. Camille still can't catch her breath, muscles, everything, still tingling, blood pounding loud in her ears even against James's grunts. And, then he's coming, going tense and still above her before slumping down on to her.

It's the quiet that makes Camille's gasping breaths seem loud and James pushes himself up, slipping off her. "You okay?" he asks.

Camille nods, not trusting herself to have enough breath to speak. But James doesn't look convinced. "Yea," he gets out. "Can't breath in this thing."

"Let me get you some water," he says, jumping up walking over to the small kitchenette in the trailer. He disposes of the condom, wiping himself off with some paper towels and doing up his jeans, before returning with a glass of water. He puts it down on the table when he gets back to her, offering up his hands instead. Camille takes James's hands, letting him pull her up so she's sitting up on the couch. Once she's up, he offers her the glass of water. Camille takes it gratefully, gulping the water down.

James sits down next to her,wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Camille sinks into his embrace, head on his shoulder. She closes her eyes, focuses on breathing. From this position, the smell of James's leather jacket overpowers the smell of sex that hangs in the air. The tingling retreating, Camille is hyper-aware of her naked skin pressed against James's clothes, her shoulder and arm pressed sticking to the leather and her bare leg pressed along the coarse denim of James's jeans all the way down.

She opens her eyes and the first thing she sees is James's eyes, already looking back at her. "Sorry, I'm okay now," Camille says looking down, breaking eye contact.

"Hey, no, don't," James says, thoughts tripping over one another. " _I'm_ sorry."

"Don't be," Camille says. "That was incredible." She tips her head back against his arm laughing the words out. Her, a fainting damsel. It's ridiculous. But that doesn't change how good it felt to be pressed up against the wall, nipples straining against the corset, James pounding into her. If she keeps thinking about it, she could be ready to go for round two.

But there are more pressing issues. "What are you doing here?" Camille asks. "I thought you were in Chicago today."

"I was," James says, running a hand down her thigh. It's distracting. "But there was a last minute opening for a musical guest spot on Ellen."

"That's great," Camille says. "When are you filming?" Maybe he'll be in town a while. Maybe she can go see them film. She hasn't been on Ellen yet. It could be fun.

James looks sheepish. "What time is it?" he asks, grabbing for her phone on the table. He slides it open, and "shit, I got to go now." James jumps up, saying "the car was going to wait for me."

Camille gets to her feet tentatively, but she's okay now. She takes her phone from him, and he goes to get his wallet from where he dropped it before.

He stops when he gets to the door and turns around. Camille is right there behind him, ready for the kiss, too used to goodbyes already. It's quick and hard and not enough, before he's pulling back. James looks like he's considering not leaving.

"Go be a star," Camille says, giving him one last quick goodbye kiss.

"You too," James says. "I'll text you later."

Camille slips back, further into her trailer, away from any line of sight from the door, while James opens the door and leaves.

Camille turns around and she's right back in front of the mirror. She looks incredibly fucked-out. She brings her hands up to her hair, where there's a long, brown wisp pulled free of the braid to see if she can tuck it back in. She has to do something. Wardrobe and hair and makeup are going to kill her.


End file.
